How Could I Miss This Book?

Cutting for Stone was recommended to me by two different friends. I'd never heard of it, even though I've read many Indian authors.

The author of this book is Abraham Verghese. He's also a physician, which makes the reading so compelling. There's a lot of blood and guts in this book, which takes place in Ethiopia and near the end, the Bronx. Beginning in 1954, the Ethiopian part spans 40 years, most of it during the reign of Haile Selassi. He's portrayed as a benevolent dictator whose people worship him despite their abject poverty. The characters are all doctors or nurses at a mission hospital run by nuns with funding by a U.S. Christian group. It's amazing what they offer their patients in terms of health care.

The long family saga takes the reader through the uprising against Selassi to an understaffed, under-supplied hospital in the Bronx. Serving the poor and those on Medicare or Medicaid, the staff does the best it can. The doctors are excellent, but never dream of getting beyond where they are due to the hospital's low ranking and the races of the doctors, staff and patients.

Miracle liver-transplant surgery performed at the hospital changes everything. Suddenly the hospital receives a lot more funding, and its ranking shoots up. Most of the top-notch doctors, however, decide to stay.

This is a great book to read at the beach if you can get it in softcover. I checked it out from my local library, hard-covered and weighty but I still schlepped it with me on a trip to Block Island and one to Landenberg, PA for a family reunion.

I'd tell you what I'm reading now, but you wouldn't believe me.   

The Best Place on Earth

I've never been to Tahiti but I have been to Playa Gringo in Costa Rica. I won't reveal its location because I don't want anyone else to go there.

But Block Island, Rhode Island is accessible to all (unfortunately) and is the best place I've ever been. Off the RI coast, reached only by ferry, private boat or airplane. It's a small island locked in time. New houses have been built, but downtown hasn't changed in 100 years.

Old Harbor From the Ferry 

Block Island Hug (Mariel and Me)

We visited Block Island last week to see Mariel. She's working there as a waitperson at the Spring House. We had a chance to enjoy some of the food and drink. During our stay, we ate a lot of fish, fried and otherwise. It was hot and humid but we stayed in a hotel with A/C, so it was comfortable. 

Mariel and I went to a yoga class. She and Marty took bike rides around the Island, trying to find the many houses we've stayed at over the years. If I could find a way to live on Block Island full-time, I'd be in heaven.

Traveling to the Best Place on Earth

Old Spice

A Good Read for Literary Types

I admit, I checked out this book from the library because of the name: Joseph Anton. I have a doctor in Boston named Joseph Antin, no relation. How do I know? Because Joseph Anton is a pseudonym Salman Rushie, author of The Satanic Verses, used when he lived under the threat of death from radical Islamists for 9 years. Joseph Conrad and Anton Chekov combine to mask his identity.

Joseph Anton is Rushdie's memoir of the period. He's a superlative writer. I read The Satanic Verses and Midnight's Children years ago when I'd barely read any Indian writers. I preferred the latter to the former, although Verses was fascinating due to its satiric look at Islam and the life of the Prophet Muhammad. Anyone who thinks the book is impossible to read hasn't read much James Joyce.

The first 350 pages of this 600+ tome is a gripping look at what Rushdie and his family had to endure under the 9-year "fatwa."  By page 400 or so, the book becomes a tedious listing of the writers who supported him (and those who didn't). Talk about name-dropping! To me, it was interesting from a literary point of view, but I admit skimming through the rest of the memoir until the last 50 pages or so when he describes his post-fatwa life, including his reaction to the events of September 11, 2001.

Rushdie is an arrogant man who seems not to care whom he insults, including ex-wives. He writes in the 3rd person, which depersonalizes and distance his words. He switches to the first person when he writes letters, which are either in his defense or an attack on someone he hates. This man hates a lot of people--you don't want to get on his shit-list, although unless you're famous you don't have to worry. I wasn't interested in whose house he stayed at in the Hamptons and what famous people were at the parties he managed to attend despite the threat on his life. At least he's not a foodie. In my opinion, the book could have been reduced by by 250 pages but I believe the man has a right to have his say, even if he is long-winded, petty and extremely ego-centric.

If you haven't read Rushdie, read Midnight's Children instead.

Coming Out of the Closet

Since it seems to be monsoon season in the Northeast, indoor activities replace fun in the sun. Yesterday, I had two accomplishments: I filed every receipt, document and bill--a thick pile that had risen for months; and I pulled everything out of the smallest closet in the smallest room, culled the ridiculous mix of old tax returns, shoes, bags of cloth and yarn, piled up the giveaways, the to-be consigned, and put back the items that live to die another day. I was lucky to emerge from that closet, profusely perspiring and bruised from the seriously close quarters.

It's time I come out of the closet about something else--my tattoos.

My daughter and son got tattoos in the summer of 2010. We lived near Providence, RI at the time. Mariel got a small black-ink tattoo on her wrist. It was my signature, which she said she'd faked many times. Mark got one on his chest over his heart: my birth date in Roman numerals in New Roman font, as he likes to point out. Send a kid to Columbia and they go esoteric whenever they can. Mariel wore a watch over her tattoo when she wanted to conceal it from someone who might not approve, like my husband or her grandmother. Mark figured his was normally hidden by a shirt, except when he runs in warm weather or when he swims.

I was honored by the tattoos, but I knew my husband would not approve. He associated tattoos with concentration camp internees who were tattooed on their wrists. Marty's dad, who survived Auschwitz, had a tattoo. The jig was up, however, because Marty was using one of Mark's old phones and he was deleting photos when he saw one of Mark with a tattoo. "Mark has a tattoo?" I could only say yes, and that Mariel had one, too.

Long ago, I associated tattoos with with certain kinds of men: sailors, prisoners, military fodder, motorcylists and drug addicts. My attitude changed during a long illness which involved lots of blood and needles. At the time, I was involved with a discussion group, and one survivor, a woman, posted a question about wanting to celebrate her success with a tattoo. She wanted suggestions. I didn't weigh in on the topic, but it made me think about my bias.

Several years ago, I secretly got a tattoo on my upper back, a coffee cup. Mark suggested it, because I love coffee so much. Marty was appalled, but he faithfully changed my bandages and tried not to think about it. Why did I do it? Because it felt rebellious, something that would be unexpected if not shocking. I was in my mid-50's; the kids were gone; and I had spent too long be too good. I wanted to be bad.

Unfortunately, the coffee cup's placement was such that I never saw it. And unless I wore strapless or strappy tops, no one else did either. During at an appointment with my dermatologist, he said "oh, I see you like coffee." Did I have grinds on my back? I needed a tattoo I could actually see. This would be a big step because it meant that those who would disapprove could see it, too.

My beloved dog Turbo died at age 14.5 a week after Thanksgiving, 2010. I would have a portrait of him tattooed on my inner calf. I have an engraved image of a Bouvier de Flandres on my key chain, with which the artist made his tracing. It certainly hurt more than the coffee cup but was worth the pain. Much larger than the cup, it has Turbo's head surrounded by a braided rope with crossed dog bones at the bottom. The colors are gray, aqua, pink and black. In truth, it doesn't do Turbo justice, but it's a constant reminder of him, and I can see it.

I was visiting my mother-in-law in Florida for a few days. It was quite warm so I decided to wear cropped pants. As we were leaving the apartment, Frances said to me, "what's that on your leg." I answered, "What. Oh, that's Turbo." She shook her head, did a little clucking of her tongue and said "Women don't have tattoos." And that was the end of it. I was out of the closet.

Yesterday, The New York Times published an article about how women get tattooed more often than men these days. Here's the link: http://www.nytimes.com/2013/07/04/books/bodies-of-subversion-explores-womens-tattoos.html. I admit that it makes me feel "cool" when someone says they like my tat. After my first tattoo, Mariel called me "hipster mom." I want to get another one soon, perhaps "Pura Vida" in rain forest green. Suggestions are welcome.